A Bolt from the Blue, page 15
He trailed off in misery, his fear of the soldiers obvious. I wondered in sudden anger of my own what cruel punishment these men had inflicted upon the servants of Castle Pontalba in the past. Then a shiver of trepidation swept me. If a mere page might suffer retaliation for so a minor a transgression, what might my father be enduring at their hands?
The washerwoman, meanwhile, gave the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I won’t say anything, child. And, besides, maybe it wasn’t even the same wagon as tried to run us down. Do you know where they took it, so I can have a look?”
The page bit his lip, his round face pale, and I feared for a moment he would refuse to answer. Then, reluctantly, he jerked his head in the direction of the barracks.
“They drove it back there,” he whispered. “And a while later, they took the wagon back to the stables. But it was empty by then.”
Tossing the remaining tunics in my direction, he turned on his heel and scampered back to the main building from which he’d come. While I gathered up the garments from the dirt, Rebecca tapped a thick finger to her lips in thought.
“Let’s get these clothes boiling,” she said with a kick of the basket, “and then we’ll visit the stables and the barracks.”
We made our swift way back to the shed, where she sorted the linens and tossed half into the first vat. While Tito used a large paddle to stir, Rebecca added to the boiling water a ladle of brown soap from the covered bucket she’d brought with her on the journey.
“A fine soup,” she said with a grin as the stained clothing swirled about in the pot. “We’ll let it simmer for a time while we tend to our other business.”
The empty basket between us, Tito and I followed the washerwoman to the stables. While she bartered with the stable master for the mare’s care and the cart’s storage overnight, the two of us slipped away for a look inside the stalls. Tito took one side of the long stone building and I, the other.
My search was the first to bear fruit.
“Here,” I softly called, peering excitedly over a low wall. Behind the stalls I’d discovered an open shed where half a dozen or more carts and wagons of various sizes were stored. One of them, in particular, had caught my eye. Not only was it far larger than the other conveyances, but a folded length of rough canvas had been left in its bed.
Tito rushed over to join me, his gaze following my pointing finger. He frowned and then shrugged.
“Come on; let’s take a closer look,” I urged and scrambled over the wall. Tito followed more slowly, so that I had already climbed into its bed by the time he reached the wagon.
“What do you think you are doing?” he demanded in a soft undertone. “The stable master might step in at any minute.”
“Then you must keep an eye out and warn me, for I am looking for clues.”
Though what clues there might be, I could not guess; still, I began scanning the wagon for something that might indicate that my father or Leonardo’s invention had been transported upon it. My diligence was rewarded when I spied a few familiar brown threads caught on the splintered bed. Plucking them carefully from the wood, I held them up to my own brown tunic.
“They’re the same,” I said in an excited whisper. “Look, Tito. Ever since he joined up with the Master, my father has been wearing the same work tunic as we apprentices wear. He must have lain on the wagon beneath the canvas with the flying machine and snagged his clothes on a splinter.”
“Let me see.” Tito drew closer and viewed my find with a skeptical look. “I’m not so sure,” he repeated. “Brown cloth is common enough, you know.”
“Perhaps. But what of this?”
Nimbly, I hopped from the wagon bed and stepped off the distance between the two rear wheels.
“—Seven, eight. There, that matches the spacing of the wheel marks we found in the Master’s shed. Add that to the canvas that could have been used to cover the wagon, and the brown threads that match our tunics, and surely we can be certain that this is the wagon in question.”
“Dino, you sound almost like Master Leonardo,” he said in an admiring tone. “Very well, you have convinced me. But now that we know where the wagon is, we must find out where its cargo has gone. Quickly, before we are spotted.”
We hurried to rejoin Rebecca, who was keeping the stable master entertained with her ribald jests.
“Ah, there are my fine young sons,” she declared, pausing to give us fond maternal smiles. “Handsome fellows, ain’t they?” she said to the stable master, adding with a wink, “Course, they look like their sires and not me.”
While the man left to gather his linens, I gave Rebecca a quick, whispered account of what I’d seen.
“Seems likely,” she agreed when I’d finished. “Let’s see what the barracks have to offer.”
A few minutes later, we were carrying a basket of linen redolent of the stables. Our destination was the oddly out-of-place structure I’d noted earlier. Hunkered up against the main wall, it bore a resemblance to the barracks of Il Moro’s men with its series of alcove entries.
I frowned. Perhaps there was room enough within one of those chambers to store the flying machine while still in pieces. Fully assembled, however, its wingspan would surely be too broad to be contained within those walls. And even if it could fit, none of the doors was wide enough to accommodate it being rolled out again.
Discouraged, I said as much to Tito and Rebecca. Tito merely shrugged, while the washerwoman tapped her lips with her blunt finger once more.
“But this is where the page said he saw the wagon halt,” she said in a considering tone. “Maybe they unloaded here and then carried the pieces wherever they needed to go.”
“But why do that? If they were trying to be inconspicuous, surely it would have made more sense to drive the wagon to the exact spot. Unless . . .”
I paused and eyed the nearby tower as an idea took form. From what the Master had told us of his design, the finished machine would have to be launched from a spot where it could catch the wind and gain height. Save for the slight rise on which the castle sat, the surrounding countryside in Pontalba was relatively flat. The only spot to offer any altitude was—
“The roof,” I softly cried. “See how it has many slopes and flat areas all along the top of the castle? They must have carried all the pieces of the flying machine up the tower steps and to a flat section somewhere behind the battlements where they could be put together.”
Tito nodded vigorously at first, but then his expression fell. “Wait, Dino. I’ve been in towers like that before, and the stairways all twist like corkscrews. The pieces of the flying machine are too long to ever wrap around those curves. How could they carry them up there?”
At his words, my own enthusiasm promptly faltered. I’d also been inside such towers before, and I feared that Tito was right. Some of those structures were built with but a narrow spiral of iron steps in their centers, with the opening at the landing above barely large enough for a man to pass through. Others had staircases of stone that wrapped along the inner walls, but the narrow steps did not easily accommodate more than one man abreast. Either way, it would be almost impossible to carry the flying machine up beyond the battlements.
Rebecca, however, was not prepared to concede defeat. Frowning, she studied the upper reaches of the castle with a scholar’s intent look. A moment later, a smile spread across her round face.
“Maybe they didn’t have to carry the pieces to get them up on the roof,” she declared and pointed.
We followed her gaze upward until we saw what she had seen . . . a pair of ropes dangling from the battlements directly above us. With a few men above and a few below, it would be relatively simple to use the ropes to haul the body and wings of the flying machine straight up!
“I must get up there,” I said with a determined jerk of my chin. “If the flying machine is on the roof, then surely my father must be somewhere near the craft. Perhaps even now he is working on it.”
“Not so fast, my boy,” the washerwoman protested, gripping my arm in one beefy hand lest I suddenly flee. “Remember what we said about finding you a tunic? Come.”
She gestured us toward the heavy basket and then started at a brisk pace back toward the shed. Tito made a rude sound of protest, and I was hard-pressed not to follow suit. By this point, I was beginning to feel like Rebecca’s brown mare, with all the hauling back and forth of baskets. But our masquerade had thus far yielded promising results, so I bit back any complaint and swiftly shouldered my portion of the burden.
Rebecca was already sorting through the remaining pile of tunics by the time we had reached the laundry shed. Plucking forth one with the fewest stains upon it, she tossed it in my direction. “This should fit. Quickly, put it on.”
Removing my belt, I pulled the pale blue tunic over my own brown garb and then retied the strip of leather about my waist. Wrinkling my nose at the smell of someone else’s sweat, I turned in a circle to model my disguise.
“Very good,” the washerwoman approved. Then she frowned. “I don’t mind saying, I’m a bit nervous letting you wander a strange castle by yourself. If you’re found out, and someone suspects what we’re about, it could go bad for all of us . . . Signor Angelo, included.”
“The duke might toss us all into his dungeon,” Tito darkly predicted. “Maybe I should go in your stead. I’m older, and—”
“No! Signor Angelo is my father, and I shall discover where they are hiding him. Besides”—I hesitated, glancing from one to the other of them—“if you or Rebecca found him first, he might refuse to go with you. He might fear that you are in league with the duke and that it is a trick.”
Tito assumed a faintly offended expression at this last, but Rebecca pursed her lips and nodded.
“That is true. It is not impossible that the Duke of Pontalba has spies at Castle Sforza. There was the boy who tricked Tito and the figure that you, Dino, say you saw more than once. There might be others, as well.”
Then she straightened the tunic on my shoulders and gave me a maternal pat. “Your sire would be proud of your bravery. Go, but be careful. And if you’re caught, pretend to be simple and tell them that your mother sent you looking for more laundry, and you got lost.”
“Ha, that should be an easy role for Dino,” Tito muttered, but his amiable smirk took the sting from his words. Then, after reaching behind one of the pots, he plucked my cap from my head and plopped another one in its place.
“Here. I grabbed this off that page’s head while he was busy sniveling about the duke’s men.”
Though a bit surprised at his callous attitude toward the frightened boy, I was pleased by his foresight in completing my disguise. Surely no one would have cause to question me should they see me wandering about the castle.
“I’ll be back soon,” I promised as I straightened the cap. “And I vow I will have news of both my father and the flying machine by the time I return.”
14
Where the descent is easier there the ascent is more difficult.
—Leonardo da Vinci, Codex Arundel
Another bit of wisdom I had learned while conducting similar clandestine activities for the Master was that, if one carried some mundane object and walked with brisk purpose, one was seldom stopped or questioned by those in charge. Thus, I slipped into the main castle wearing my borrowed tunic and cap and bearing a small armful of folded table linens.
Had I been staring down from the vantage point of the clouds, I would have seen myself standing within the bottom portion of the U that formed the castle’s main structure. I had entered the great hall, which stretched before me . . . dark and bleak and redolent with the smell of sweat and burned meat and woodsmoke. What little natural light there was came from the archer’s windows along the front wall. Their purpose defensive rather than ornamental, those wedge-shaped windows narrowed from a recess large enough for a man to stand within to a mere sliver of an opening. The few stripes of sunlight they allowed in were mirrored by the remains of the previous night’s blaze smoldering in the immense fi replace along the distant rear wall. Not surprisingly, the hall was empty, given that it would be several hours before the evening meal was served.
My footsteps rang loud upon the stone floor as I ventured a bit farther in, for only a scattering of reeds and no fine carpets had been put down to dampen the sound. A substantial trestle table lay directly before the broad stone hearth. A single matching chair, intricately carved and large enough for two men, was positioned behind it. I had no doubt this seat belonged to Nicodemo. Other tables and benches were arranged so as to leave a wide aisle from that main table, giving the duke a clear line of sight to the door.
Glancing to either side, I saw several threadbare tapestries hanging from the walls on ornate iron rods. Each woven work depicted gruesome scenes of hunted beasts, and none of them added any real cheer. Alternating with the tapestries on one wall was a series of alcoves. These presumably led to a single hallway that ran parallel to that wall, and where the servants might discreetly enter and exit . . . perhaps where a musician might be hidden away.
My tentative steps caused the large black hound sprawled upon a pile of dried reeds in the corner to lift its nose from its paws. From the aggressive tilt of its broad head, it appeared to be debating between the pleasure of confronting an intruder and the comfort of remaining snugly in its nest. The latter choice won out, for the hound contented itself with a half-hearted woof before sighing back into canine slumber.
Relieved, I started toward the adjoining chamber. My goal for the moment was to make my way up to the battlements above the barracks and discover if the flying machine was there upon the roof. I dared not try to reach the top by means of the tower that was part of the soldiers’ quarters, lest I encounter the duke’s men. But if I could find another way to access the roof, I could surely reach that particular spot, for all the upper walkways would be interconnected.
I passed several servants as I traversed the lower level, but none questioned me or paid me more than a glance. Keeping a keen eye out for a passage leading to a stairway, I decided to follow one of the older pages who was wandering a bit apace of me. He disappeared into an alcove, which turned out to conceal the hoped-for course . . . a narrow stone staircase. I waited at its foot long enough to be sure I would not stumble across him at the landing above before making my way up.
The staircase led to an open chamber that appeared to be the dividing point between two separate wings. I knew that I was unlikely to stumble across the duke here, for I had learned from Rebecca’s conversation with his servants that his personal chambers lay in the right arm of the U. I assumed that, as with Il Moro’s private residence within Castle Sforza, the Duke of Pontalba’s rooms were secured from the rest, allowing him greater refuge should the castle ever be successfully stormed.
Tucking my linens beneath my arm, I went to the nearest window and leaned out to get my bearings. This high up, the windows were broader than those at ground level, so that I could comfortably sit upon the sill. But they did not overlook the outer wall and give a view of the open field beyond the main gate and guard towers. Rather, their view was that of into the inner castle grounds, and of the smaller towers and turrets not visible from the front.
Clutching the stone edges to stave off the sudden dizziness that threatened, I gingerly leaned out a bit farther. I could glimpse to my left a curl of smoke and the corner of the shed where Rebecca and Tito were doing the laundry. The barracks lay on the opposite side of the castle, the same side where the duke was housed. That was where I needed to be.
Aware that time was passing, I turned to the south wing, slipping past the first door. The next series of rooms were far smaller than those on the floor below, consisting of salons and apartments reserved for guests. Some opened into one another; others were connected by short halls. As with much of the rest of the castle, several of the rooms appeared to have been added as afterthoughts, portioned out of larger chambers.
Midway through, I startled a young porter and serving girl who were attempting a hasty coupling in one of the toilets. An odorous alcove set into the outer wall, it boasted nothing more than a slit of a window for ventilation and an open stone seat built over the cesspit far below. It was hardly a spot conducive to romance, though it likely afforded more privacy than the pair would know in their own quarters.
Muttering a hasty apology, I ducked out of that niche as quickly as I had entered and, their curses ringing in my ears, continued with my search.
Another alcove led to yet another staircase, this one consisting of rough stone steps that led upward in a spiral to a broad wooden hatch set into in the ceiling. My excitement grew, along with my trepidation. Surely I was getting closer to my goal.
Leaving the linens behind, I started up the first step, trying to ignore the sudden light-headedness that threatened. While I had never cared much for heights, my fearful adventures within the towers of Castle Sforza a few months earlier had intensified that dislike. Thus, the open design of this crude stairway was sufficient to set my heart beating far faster than its usual rhythm. Telling myself not to look down, I clutched at the wall for support and grimly continued my climb.
Sweat beaded my upper lip by the time I reached the top.
With an effort, I schooled my uneven breath and gave an experimental push upon the hatch, noting as I did so the heavy iron loops set into both that wood and the stone around it. A pair of iron bars could easily be slipped through those circles, making the hatch almost impossible to open from above should an enemy threaten. But for now, it swung upward with but a small squeal and landed with a muffled thud.
Aware that I had announced my presence should anyone be up there, I hesitated a long moment before taking the final steps to the level above.
To my relief, none of Nicodemo’s men came bearing down upon me, swords drawn and ready for capture. Instead, I found myself alone at what was best described as a crossroads between two open doorways. Those doorways were situated at right angles, with each leading to a narrow passage.
